Stalling for time
by MLaw
Summary: Illya finds himself in danger as he's been taken prisoner by a greedy art collector who wants information about cache of rare paintings stolen by the Nazis. Will Kuryakin be rescued in time or suffer at the hands of this madman. Originally posted for PicFic Tuesday on section7mfu, Live Journal. The prompt is the image of the stolen Degas painting "Place de la Concorde." Pre-saga


A slightly balding somewhat ordinary looking man wearing a tweed jacket was seated at a piano, touching his fingers deftly to the ivory keys, playing a piece that Illya Kuryakin found instantly familiar to him.

There were other things he recognized as well, paintings surely by Degas, Matisse, Chagall...Picasso, Kokoschka, Renoir to name a few... many had gone missing during the war and were suspected of having been stolen by the Nazis. The U.N.C.L.E. agent had not seen such a treasure trove of artwork since 'The Recollectors Affair."

Illya had no choice in listening to the piano serenade, as he was a captive audience, being tied rather tightly to a dark Gothic style Cathedral Chair. Besides the paintings, the dundeon-like room was filled with an ecclectic collection of tapestries and garish furnishings in the French Rococo and Medieval styles, accessorized with a plethora of statuary depicting gargoyles, demons and dragons.

The only truly modern piece in the room was the Steinway and Sons baby grand piano at which his host, a man named Gairovald Mephisto-Labé was seated… the mahogany instrument from the looks of it was completely out of place with the rest of the decor. One would have expected a harpsichord perhaps, but not a piano surely built as recently as 1960.

"Puccini, " Illya remarked with a nod. "Grand Fantasy on Themes from La Boeme?"

"Puccini- Labé," the pianist corrected. "Though still very astute of you Mr. Kuryakin. I am surprised, seeing as you are Russian and one would expect you only have an ear for composers approved by the Soviet State".

Again Kuryakin nodded. "The likes of Tchaikovsky, Shostakovich and Stravinsky for that matter, or the 'Mighty Five' come to mind… but to presume just because I am Russian that I am solely devoted to my country's most important composers...who are among the greatest in the world, by the way, is quite preposterous. I do enjoy Puccini...Madame Butterfuly is exquisite, though I find his Tosca comparable to Wagnerian leitmotivs, and given my home's...shall we say, dalliance with Hitler, who we know was obsessed with Wagner; you surely can understand my aversion in that regard. Wagner's anti-Semitic and fervently nationalistic writings, it is said, had a quasi-religious effect on the Nazi leader. His theories of racial purity were partly drawn from Wagner..." Illya tried rambling on.

"Hmmm, you think you are very clever trying to steer me off topic, but seriously, Wagnerian? I do not think you could find a more Puccinian score than Tosca. I reject your opinion whole heartedly sir; it is narrow mindedness on your part Mr. Kuryakin, though not surprising...you are after all, a product of the Soviet Union and have had narrow mindedness drilled into your skull, no doubt, since you were a child. Everything is petty and bourgeois to you people."

Illya shrugged his indifference, but couldn't resist getting in at least one jab, "Vchuzhom glazu sorinku zametno, v svoyem — brevna ne vidat'"

Labé stared blankly…

"Beg pardon, you do not understand my language….pity,"Illya smirked. "It is old Russkiy saying... pot calling kettle black." His accent suddenly thickened. "_Vous préférez français? Deutsch? O en español?_

Professor Labé threw his head back in raucus laughter, "It does not matter what language you speak you pretentious little man. Your voice betrays you Russian. My ear is trained to hear the nuances in pitch and tone. I sense you are nervous, are you not? How refreshingly amusing. My experience with your fellow countrymen has been nothing but dealing with stiff-jawed dour-faced stoics. You are a delightful change indeed Mr. Kuryakin, and your reputation does not do you justice; it is a shame your life will be cut so short; you could provide me with amusement."

"Oh you misjudge me Professor, I possess quintessential Russian soul and will be stoic to…" Illya corrected his English, "the.. bitter end. Speaking of the bitter end, would you either get whatever you have planned for me over with, or just let me go. My time spent here with you thus far is becoming somewhat tedious. Besides, my partner is, as usual a little late, but you would save yourself quite a bit of pain and heartache courtesy of Napoleon Solo, when he arrives... if you would just see your way to release me."

"Oh my, I have never been so amused by a prisoner!" Labé snickered. "This bluff though well played will not work on me, as you see your partner is dead and you know it. We saw his car blown up if you recall? You are simply stalling for time, which is fruitless by the way."

The professor rose from his bench, picking up a small black case on the piano top beside the silver candleabra. He unzippered it, removing a syringe and a bottle of clear liquid.

Illya stared at the needle. "What is that?"

"A truth serum of my own making." The professor filled the syringe, inverting it and depressing a bit of the liquid through the needle, assuring it was in good working order.

"I will tell you now, such things do not work on me. I have been well conditioned to resist them," Illya warned with an almost arrogant tone of assurance.

"Oh I seriously doubt that you will hold up against my formula. Even a man with the most thorough conditioning must give in to this...you see if you try to resist, you will experience pain. The more you refuse to submit, the more painful it becomes, pain so exquisite that it will have you begging to tell me your deepest darkest secrets if I would but ask. Perhaps I just might do that? I have heard you are an intensely private person and that makes me wonder what it is you hide from the world; what perversions perhaps, what lies do you shield behind that pompous, self-righteous veneer of yours?"

Illya's chin jutted out definantly, though in his head a voice was screaming for his partner to rescue him now. He was condtioned to resist thruth serums per se, but most of what he just said had been pure braggadocio.

"Do your worst Professor, I will not submit and would rather die trying." Illya steeled himself for the agony he imagined was to come.

"Ah Mr. Kuryakin, it does not surprise me at all to hear you say that. I have heard you are famous for your Russian stubbornnesss. You will, however, surrender. Everyone does," Labé hissed.

He grabbed Illya's wrist, shoving up his sleeve and exposing the Russian's pale arm as he struggled to resist. The Professor prepared to inject the drug into his vein.

"My my, from the old needle marks on your arm, one would think you are a drug addict of sorts...but I know better. Hmm, perhaps you have been given so many serums that you just might have some resistance to my formula after all, or perhaps the effects instead may be augmented. Tsk...I hope you do not expire too soon Mr. Kuryakin, at least not until you give me the location of the artwork."

"I will never tell you. They are in safe hands and those masterpieces stolen by the Nazis will eventually be returned to their rightful owners and the museums of Europe. You will never get your hands on them you greedy bastard." Illya practically spat at the man.

The slight blond received as slap across the face in response to his name calling, splitting his lip in the process.

"Enough. I grow tired of you Mr. Kuryakin and you no longer amuse me." He pressed the needle to Illya's skin, sticking it in none too gently, and smiling as Illya hissed at the discomfort..

Just as Labé was about to inject the drug he heard the sound of a 'pfffft' in the air; the Professor released the syringe, grabbing the back of his neck.

He pulled out the sleep dart, muttering a swear word before he collapsed unconscious to the floor. Illya called out to his unseen rescuer, "Cutting it a little close this time Napoleon, now please get this needle out of my arm before something goes wrong."

Solo stepped from the shadows, looking quite disheveled; another suit ruined…"I ahhh, had this little run in with an exploding car and got here as fast as I could."

Napoleon took hold of the needle, carefully removing it from his partners arm.

Illya was untied and given a hand up from his chair.

"Another suit bites the dust,"Solo complained, seeing his reflection in an antique mirror."Mr. Waverly won't be pleased."

"Maybe about the suit, but pleased we both survived and the artworks location safe until they can be turned over to the proper authorities." Illya rubbed the spot on his arm where the needle had been stuck. "If damaging another one of your suits is the worst consequence of this mission, I think the Old Man will take it," Illya cracked a smile.

"One can only hope tovarisch, one can only hope. Now let's blow this place until we can get a cleanup team in here."

"Napoleon, we cannot blow ip this place ...there are too many valuable piece of art here,"Illya's was aghast at his partner's suggestion.

"Not literally. It's just a figure of speech that mean's _let's leave_."

"Why did you not say that in the first place?"

"Never mind," the American just shook his head.


End file.
